Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Mike racks the balls, and Alan squares up to play a game with him while Roscoe and I sit at a table and watch. “You know Mike ain’t really after Etta, right? He just likes giving you shit.”
Cutting my eyes over, I see that Roscoe’s serious. “You ever meet his last girlfriend?” When he shakes his head, I grin as I watch Mike and Alan battle to clear the table. “Mike’s got a type. You heard of cougars? Well, Mike likes jaguars. Less than fifty need not apply. So he’s dead serious when he flirts with Etta, but she ain’t interested. Or if she is, I don’t want to know about it. Her business is her own, and I’ve got a strong preference for living, so I keep my nose out of it.”
He laughs, probably thinking I’m exaggerating, but I’m not.
I pour a glass of beer from the pitcher we’re working our way through and hold it up. Roscoe clinks glasses with me and toasts, “To a good week and good-er weekend.”
I sigh happily after I take a big sip.
And I know better than to jinx shit like that. You never say it’s quiet in an ER or restaurant, you never say what’s the worst that could happen before you do something stupid, and you never toast to a good weekend when it hasn’t started yet.
So I shouldn’t be surprised when the door of Puss N Boots opens and trouble walks in, but I am.
Chrissy Ford is standing by the door, looking around awkwardly and fidgeting with her bottle-blonde hair. In seemingly slow motion, people freeze as they realize who’s here and quietly alert their friends, the wave of recognition and buzz of interest moving around the whole bar until all eyes are on Chrissy.
I know for a fact it’s the first time she’s been here, because she’s persona non grata in Etta’s place. Once upon a time, long, long, long ago, the two of them were best friends. Chrissy was even going to be the maid of honor at Etta’s wedding.
Until Etta found Chrissy and Etta’s soon-to-be groom, Jed Ford, right in the middle of being real familiar. The fallout was ugly and continues to this day, which is what makes Chrissy’s appearance here all the more concerning.
“Shiiiit.” I grab my phone from my back pocket and send a quick text to my sister, Hazel, who’s the only person with a chance at refereeing a cat-fight catastrophe between Aunt Etta and her nemesis.
911. Not a drill. Chrissy’s at Puss N Boots. Get bail money for Etta ready.
Charlene gets to the door before Etta, narrowly saving Chrissy’s life. “Hey, honey-baby, normally this’d be the part where I tell you to grab a seat and offer to getcha a beer. But we both know the only thing you’d best be grabbing is your own ass as you get the hell outta here.” Charlene smiles widely and blinks her fake lashes as she offers the free advice with all the sassy fire she possesses.
Chrissy seems unsure what to do with the less-than-welcoming greeting, but I don’t know what she expected here. Even people who might be friendly with her or Jed, or work for Jed like I do, know that given half a chance, or a Purge Day, Chrissy would be number one on Etta’s shit list. She hates Jed, but I think deep down, Etta was more hurt by her friend’s actions than her husband-to-be’s.
“Uhm, is Etta here? I need to talk to her,” Chrissy tells Charlene.
We can all hear every word at this point, and from somewhere over at the bar, a voice says, “Your funeral.”
Tayvious’s voice calls out, “Etta, you got some trash to take out up front.” He dings the bell signaling an order is ready, but there’s no food in the window. I think it’s supposed to be the start of round one—Chrissy versus Etta.
My money’s on Aunt Etta every time. Hell, Etta versus Stone Cold Steve Austin, my money’s on Etta.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Etta snaps as she comes out from the back, drying her hands on a towel, and sees what we’re all staring at.
To her credit, Chrissy doesn’t run out the door. Though, maybe that’s because she’s too foolish to save her own life. She even doubles down on her death wish, asking Etta, “Can we talk for a second?” After a swallow, she adds, “Please?”
Etta narrows her eyes, taking Chrissy’s measure—probably for a casket—and lifts her chin toward a table by the door. The relief that washes through Chrissy is obvious, piquing everyone’s interest more. Etta tosses her rag to the bar, stomps over in her boots, and perches on the edge of the stool across from her old friend, not getting too comfy and staying ready to rumble at the slightest provocation.